I Think You Missed the Point
by also known as LuLu
Summary: “And then I stop talking, because no one is listening.” POV fic. Lennie laments.


_Disclaimer:_ If I am sued by Dick Wolf or anyone else that owns something in this story (hey, you never know), they will get the seven dollars and fifty cents I got in tips at work tonight, and that's pretty much it. So it's in their best interest just to let me borrow.  
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Author's Notes:****_ It's probably a bad thing that the first Law & Order fanfic I'm posting here is about bacon (yes, you read that correctly. Hey, it's late at night, cut me some slack. It's not all about bacon, though. Bacon is just a catalyst.). Part of me doesn't expect this piece of writing to be taken seriously (I might actually take it down in a day or so, heh). But please don't let these things deter you from reading on. If you read it, please at the very least leave me a review, and I will be most grateful.  
  
I Think You Missed the Point  
by LuLu  
  
I open my refrigerator. I stare at what's on the shelves inside, not exactly sure why I opened the door in the first place.  
  
I don't even know why it catches my eye.  
  
I'd forgotten that I had a bag of Hormel Real Crumbled Bacon in there. With 30% less fat than USDA data for pan-fried bacon. I didn't even think they made that, let alone it being in my refrigerator.   
  
It'll be good for salads, I decide as I close the door. So much for that adventure.  
  
As I turn away, I realize it. I don't eat salads. I never have, and I'm not about to start.  
  
I pause, considering what to do. I open the door again and take the bag out.   
  
I'll eat it plain. No sense in wasting good bacon, I think. The adventure begins again.  
  
I go over to the drawer where I keep my silverware. I guess "silverware" is a nice term for it; I don't have much beyond the basics after my ex-wife took the good stuff. I pull out a spoon, but somehow my fingers just can't grip it and it falls to the tile of my kitchen floor with a tinny clang. I shudder slightly at the noise, thinking it sounds like my ex-wife. But I don't move to pick the spoon up. Instead, I take out another one and surround the cool metal handle with my fist, tightly, tenaciously.   
  
Like it's the only thing I have left. But I've got nothing left.  
  
I pause again as this thought passes through me like a fly through an open window. What a pathetic metaphor. But I've never been good at that kind of thing. Not metaphors, not fatherhood. Just policework, and the occasional joke.  
  
I shake my head, like I literally want to disturb the thoughts in my head into leaving. What's that, another metaphor? No, wait. 'Like'. A simile. Maybe it's neither. Now that I think about it, was the comment about the fly a simile? I don't know. It could have been. I'm as confused about that kind of thing now as much as when I sat down to take my tenth-grade English final. But those thoughts are just another distraction. Right now I'm just supposed to focus on the bacon and nothing else.  
  
I exhale and dig the spoon into the open bag. The first spoonful reaches my mouth, and the taste is salty, slightly oily, and not very meaty. Disappointing, like everything else. The taste of salt overwhelms the other flavors. It's acute. Everything's been acute since yesterday. Acute and overwhelming. Every passing moment is almost salt in open wound.  
  
That I know for sure is a metaphor. But saying somebody ripped my heart out yesterday is not hyperbole.  
  
I'm doing it to myself again. Back to the bacon. I have to focus on the bacon.  
  
Another spoonful yields an interesting find. A small, white, rectangular packet with green and red writing. Something called FreshPax from Buffalo, New York. Good, the next time I need to keep a bag of bacon fresh, I'll be sure to go to them. Something else on the packet catches my eye, though.  
  
"Contains iron. Do not eat," I read out loud. "Good to know."  
  
And then I stop talking, because no one is listening.  
  
No one has been here to listen for a long time.  
  
The visitors come, the visitors go, and no one listens. They think they do, but they're unable to. They're just bodies who don't quite understand. By this definition, then, Rey is just a visitor too. He thinks he understands, but he doesn't. He's young, still a little green behind the ears. He said he would call me sometime today. So did the lieutenant, who lacks the green but still doesn't gain the understanding in exchange. She's a visitor too. And even though I'm half-wishing for phone to ring, I'm half-praying that it won't. There's only one way a phone call will end up today, and I don't need to be reminded.  
  
My baby is dead. That bastard killed her.   
  
Nothing can keep me from forgetting that.  
  
Cathy…Cathy, Cathy, Cathy. Cathy. Catherine.   
  
'Catherine' sounds strange to me, and this clash ruins the rhythm of the mantra. I never called her anything but Cathy, not even when she was born. Her mother always did, though, in that sharp, metallic voice that sounds like that dropped spoon. Catherine Marie Briscoe, what have you done now? she'd ask. And now I know the answer.  
  
She got herself into the worst kind of trouble, and I wasn't there to save her.  
  
My baby. My baby's dead. I'll make sure that bastard pays for it, even if I or McCoy or those boys of Brooklyn who were involved in the whole thing can't do a damned thing about it.  
  
You have no idea what this is doing to me, Cathy. I wasn't there for you.   
  
I wasn't there. I never was, and now it's coming back to tear me into pieces. Did you ever think your old man could experience these emotions? I sure didn't, and I'm sure you didn't either. Now look how wrong we both are.  
  
Jesus God.  
  
Those two words remind me of the half-Jewish part of me and the whole kosher thing as I plunge my spoon back into the bag. As if I needed more reminders right now. But this one still serves the original purpose, so I go with it. Is bacon kosher? I force myself to consider this. I don't think so. This is just an excuse, I know. The whole bacon escapade was just an excuse to distract me. A pointless, failed excuse. Nothing can keep me from forgetting about this.  
  
I throw the bag into the trash and the spoon into the sink. I know that I won't look at it again for another three days, when the plates are finally piled so high I can't ignore them, and I finally load them into the dishwasher. And though that day is not today, just that sole spoon seems like a glaring mountain of dirty dishes.  
  
I'm not as good at ignoring things as I thought, I think as I go to my closet in order to dig out my best suit.  
  
The wake is tonight, and the funeral is tomorrow. I can't shake it, no matter how hard I try.  
  
In the meantime, no matter what I do, I'm just going through the motions as best I can.  
  
  
  
_Post AN: _Now, was that as bad as you thought? Click the pretty blue button and tell me whatcha think (constructive criticism is always welcome), and I'll love you forever. I had two other possible subjects for this story; it could have been Jack mourning Claire or Mike mourning Max (non-slash). But writing Lennie was a challenge for me, one I hope I did well.  
  



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